What is Freedom
by BondWoman007
Summary: Spot quickly learns what it means to not be free and must learn to survive as his life takes a quick turn for the worse. This is a story about how Spot becomes a tough boy on the streets of Brooklyn. Warnings: some abuse and a slightly graphic violent scene - please don't read if that will offend you.


**A/N: Written for the "Newsies Pape Selling Competition". Task: #1 Write about a newsie gaining their freedom from a bad situation. Prompts: Word – Darkness, Color – Red, Object – Stick; Words: 1791**

 **Warning – some abuse and a slightly graphic scene.**

 **This story takes place before the original Newsies story (which I don't own, nor do I own the characters). It is a brief picture of how Spot came to be a tough guy on the streets of Brooklyn. This has no ties to my other story Providing Refuge, however if you want to see another glimpse of young Spot you might want to check that out.**

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Spot sat up as soon as he heard the door to the apartment open. He had been laying on his bed in the dark, waiting for his father to get home. The electricity had been turned off a little over a week ago, so there really wasn't anything for him to do but lay on his bed. He figured there wasn't much hope his father had found a job, but he still had a glimmer of hope that he had least had been able to scrounge up enough money for some food. That glimmer was quickly snuffed out as soon as he heard his father's slurred voice call out, "Jane, where'd ya leave my slippers?". Spot laid back down, knowing there was no point in getting up just to see his mother's haggard face and his father's drunken stupor.

Ever since the accident at the factory a month ago where his father broke his arm, life had steadily been going downhill. The factory was quick to lay his father off as soon as he told them it would be at least a month before he had two working arms again. Jobs were scarce and nobody wanted to hire a man with a broken arm. Soon, most of the furniture had been sold just to get enough money to buy bread and some cabbage which his mother stretched into more meals than seemed possible. It had now been three days since they had anything other than a couple scraps of bread in the house and all their possessions had been sold. Unfortunately, his father had quickly succumbed to depression and any coins he could beg off passersby were spent on cheap whiskey.

Spot had quickly figured out that his father was a mean drunk. Last week, Spot had taken the last of the money his mother had saved from the furniture sales and purchased 20 papes from The World to sell on the streets. Learning how to sell papes turned out to be more difficult than he thought. He was only 10 and a lot smaller than most of the other newsies which meant any time he found a place to start selling another older boy would come along and threaten to beat him if he didn't move on. By the end of the day he had only sold 10 papes, was tired and hungry, and was sporting a busted lip. He used the little money that he had made to buy a loaf of bread and some more cabbage and then slowly walked home.

When he got home, Spot dejectedly walked up the stairs to their second floor apartment and walked inside. His mother, sitting on the lone chair in their kitchen, quickly looked up, "How did it go, dear?" When she saw that he was close to tears and was almost dead on his feet she jumped up and helped him put the food on the counter. "Oh sweetie! What happened?" Spot handed her the leftover papers. "I let ya down, Ma. I only sold half of me papes and now I don't have any money to buy more papes tomorrow."

His mother just looked down at him and smiled. "Don't worry about it sweetie. You sold enough to buy us food for tonight. That is more than we had this morning." Spot realized that she was right and that at least they would get supper that night. Just then, his father came stumbling through the door. "Wha' is dis?" he slurred while pointing at the pile of papes on the floor. Jane, Spot's mother, explained to him that she had a few coins left which she had sent with Spot so he could sell papes with the newsies.

Spot's father glared up at him. "Ya lazy, good fer nothin' boy! I see ya jist wasted da money." He started walking towards Spot as Spot started shrinking away. Jane quickly came to Spot's defense, "Colin, you leave the poor boy alone. He worked hard all day. At least he brought home some food for supper. That's more than you can say for yourself." As she turned to offer some more comfort to Spot, she didn't see the fist flying at her. She let out a startled scream as she found herself knocked backwards. Luckily he was too drunk to aim and only managed to land a glancing blow. Spot quickly ran to his mother to make sure she was ok, barely noticing his father mutter a string of curses and walk balk out the door.

That night was the first time his father had struck either one of them, but it wasn't the last. It seemed that no matter what Spot did, he always seemed to make his father angry. His mother always tried to protect him and took the brunt of his father's anger, but she wasn't always successful. Even though it had only been a week since that encounter, both Spot and his mom were sporting multiple bruises and had quickly learned to keep quiet around his father.

As Spot lay in the darkness, wondering what they were going to do if his father wasn't able to get a job soon, he listened to the sounds of his father yelling once again. All the sudden he heard a crash and jumped out of bed. He ran out of his bedroom and saw his mother cowering on the floor of the kitchen with broken pieces of their last chair scattered all around her. She was crying and he quickly ran to see if she was ok. Of course his father barely seemed to be aware of what he had done and just looked at them with disgust. "Both of ya, git up and stop your carryin' on." He shook the broken leg of the chair that was still in his hand at them in a threatening manner.

Spot jumped up, "You leave ma mother alone. Ya got no right to go beatin' on her jist cause ya ain't found no job." He barely saw the stick flying at him and turned just in time for it to hit his shoulder instead of his jaw. He screamed out as more blows from the stick landed on his shoulders and back and crumpled to the floor. He pulled his head between his arms to protect it and rolled up in a ball, trying to protect himself from the blows as much as possible. He heard his mother stand up and yell at his father to stop. He risked a glance up and saw her pulling at this father's arm. Spot quickly got up and ran to his room, nursing his arm that had taken the majority of the blows. When he got to his room, the darkness seemed to almost be a welcoming blanket and he felt safe.

He peeked back out of his doorway and saw his mother yelling at his father. She had finally wrestled the stick away from him and was shaking it at him while telling him to leave and to not bother coming back until he was sober. She turned and saw Spot in his doorway and started walking towards him. His father had just been standing there mutely but when she turned away, Spot saw his father's face suddenly turn red with rage. Spot quickly backed further into his room trying to stay out of sight. He knew he should warn his mother but was too afraid to bring his father's wrath down on himself again.

Spot heard his father yell in rage, his mother yelped and then there was a sickening crunch and thud. The sudden quiet was almost more frightening than the yelling as he had no idea what his father was going to do next. He cautiously inched his way towards his doorway again. At first all he saw was the pool of red. Then he noticed his mother's crumpled body lying on the floor right outside his doorway. Her lifeless eyes were staring at him and he noticed a streak of red on the edge of the doorway. With a strangled cry he ran to his mother's body, not even paying attention to his father who was standing there in shock.

When he touched her face, it still felt warm but it was obvious his mother was gone. The lifeless eyes and the limp body were enough to prove that her spirit had left. Spot cried in anguish as he hugged her to him, not caring about the pool of red that he was sitting in. He felt someone brush up to him and looked up to see his father bending over and trying get close to his mother. Silent tears were running down his father's face and all hint of rage was gone. Spot glared up at him, "How could ya do this? She ain't never done anythin' against ya. All she did was love us." The more Spot talked the more rage he began to feel. He gently let go of his mother's body and then jumped up. Tears were streaming down his face but there were angry tears mixed in – anger at his father for what he had done, but mostly anger at himself for being too afraid to save his mother.

His fear was gone, replaced now with anger. He screamed and pounded on his father, but being so small his father barely seemed to notice him. After a minute, his father just looked down at him and pushed him away. Spot slowly stopped his raging when he realized there was no effect. Knowing there was nothing left for him in this apartment, he turned and walked out the door and down to the street. He never looked back and knew that he would never again see his father.

After wandering the streets for hours, Spot came to the Brooklyn bridge. Exhausted and with fresh tears falling, he walked to the end of the bridge and found a place to settle for what remained of the night. When he laid down and closed his eyes, all he could see was a background of red with his mother's lifeless eyes staring at him. The mixture of sadness and guilt was too much and he once again broke down sobbing. He vowed to himself that he would never again let fear keep him from standing up to someone and trying to save anyone. As he began to fall asleep, he realized that he was free from his father's heavy hand and the weight of his parents' worry and depression. However, he wondered if that was a freedom he truly wanted or if he would now be in a worse situation with no family, no money, and nowhere to go.


End file.
